At the tender age of 12, I began to experience many new things in my life. As I transitioned to adolescence , I went through various changes physically, mentally, and emotionally. But at the time, I never expected that these changes would extend to things outside of myself—more specifically, my family.

Being so young, the only thing I should have been focusing on was myself and my shift from being a child into a teenager. The only worry I should have had was transitioning from using pencils in elementary school to using pens as I prepared to enter high school. I deeply believe that no child deserves to face tough questions.

Unfortunately, not everyone is so lucky because at that age, I had no choice but to ask, why did it have to be her? Is there anything more I could do? What do I do now, knowing that I could possibly lose her? Questions like these plagued my mind as I watched my mother fall deeply sick.

Untroubled, unconcerned young girl

(Screenshot from Hi Bye, Mama! (2020))

A few months before entering my teenage years, my mother began to get sick frequently. At first these were the kind of sickness you could easily treat at home. However, these evolved more visits to the hospital.

In the first few months, I didn’t really worry about it. “She’s been sick before,” I thought, thinking that she’d recover soon. My mother is strong-willed and stubborn. She was not the type to let some illness get the best of her. I watched her every day of my life get up in the early morning, work the hellish hours that come with being a doctor, and come home just in time for dinner.

She was strong, and I knew that nothing—not even occasionally falling ill—would keep her down for long. It was easy to maintain this admiration I have for my parents when I was young and naive, admiring my mother and wishing to become just like her as I went through some of the most significant changes of my life.

Even when her bouts of sickness grew worse and longer, I wasn’t worried. Even when her days of bed rest turned into weeks of checkups and months of jumping from hospital to hospital, I went with the flow—never worried, never too concerned, never losing hope that she’d come back home good as new.

That was until she stopped coming home. My father had to sit us down and explain to us that she needed to remain in the hospital indefinitely. Then, I began to see her less. Only then, did I begin to worry.

Worried, scared teenage daughter

(Screenshot from Guardians of the Galaxy (2014))

At 13 years old, I was already quite familiar with the hustle and bustle of hospitals—the clean, white tiled floors, the slightly bitter scent of antiseptic, the various patients and doctors, and the front desk people who we’d check in with each time we paid my mother a visit.

Each visit turned me from slightly worried to frantically worried as I watched her condition grow worse. At the start, she could talk to us for hours, making jokes and being her usual self. However, as the months progressed, we were lucky if she managed to stay awake a few minutes for us to talk to her. My worry only grew as I began to learn what it was exactly that was plaguing her.

“Her organs are failing,” is what we were told. “This is possibly due to the repeated exposure to various treatments for the cancer she had years prior.” I heard this, but it was difficult to take in. What I understood was that all the medicine that helped her with one sickness caught up with her and is causing her problems now, made evident by the way she became thinner and weaker. I felt helpless as I couldn’t do anything but sit by her bedside every time we visited.

I clearly remember one visit in particular. She had been in the hospital on and off for more than half a year, and her condition had worsened to the point she could no longer respond as we spoke to her. Walking into that room, I was met with the familiar sight of her lying down on the hospital bed, various machines next to her, helping to keep her alive. Her eyes were closed, but the doctors told us to just talk to her, saying even if she didn’t respond, that she could hear us.

It was late December. When we last visited, my father cheerfully told her to get better soon so we could all be together for Christmas. This time, he told her to “come home soon to watch the fireworks on New Year’s Day.” I was worried and scared, but being young and not knowing how severe her condition really was, I echoed my father’s words to my mother and bid her a cheerful goodbye, all in an effort to appear stronger than I actually seemed.

She never came home, though. Now, my father had to sit us down and explain to us the concept of death.

Enlightened, wistful young woman

(Screenshot from WandaVision (2021))

A few months before my 14th birthday, I watched my mother’s burial. If one told me at twelve years old that I would be living the rest of my life without one of my parents, I would scoff. I’d reply, “That’s impossible. My parents will be with me forever.”

Except forever is so short and 13 is too young to have to be confronted with the death of a parent. Especially at an age where needing both of them present is crucial, I could hardly believe I would have to grow up without one. At just thirteen, I was confronted with the idea that time stops for no one, and life can be taken away from those who weren’t expected to leave.

Just as I believed nothing could take my parents away from me, sickness took my mother, leaving me with nothing but grief. Losing her forced me to realize the fleetingness of one’s life, just as it taught me the valuable lesson of appreciating the ones I love while they’re still around.

Although I had to be confronted with death at 13, being that young also meant there was time for this grief to transform. Now, when I look back on those days, I can only remember how she made me feel so loved and how I wish I was able to express more of my love back to her, for it was in losing her that I learned to love more and to love better.

She taught me a valuable lesson—to take every chance I get to tell the people I love that I love them. I live everyday upholding that in honor of her memory.